


Green is the Gayest Colour

by Chemical_Defect



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dating, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Musical, always johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 04:07:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7786186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chemical_Defect/pseuds/Chemical_Defect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson brings his date to see the musical play Wicked.<br/>Sherlock crashes his date as he would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green is the Gayest Colour

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a friend with whom I went to see Wicked last December. Johnlock ideas ensued. Here is the result.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs to 221b living room. Gloves discarded away, scarf untied, coat shrugged off.

‘Oh, that was fun,’ a baritone voice said.

‘Suppose it was, yeah.’

‘Not too bad for a six.’

‘Well, someone’s in a good mood,’ Greg declared, looking alternatively from John to Sherlock.

The two men shared a look – a fleeting one, for once – before Sherlock went to settle on his armchair. John tried to remain unaffected, that much was obvious. And Sherlock was…wait. Were his cheekbones actually flushed? Him? What a night it must have been, indeed…

He closed his eyes, but not before snapping – more at Greg than John, it seemed – not to disturb him whatever the circumstance. Standard behaviour.

Greg was not puzzled by any of that. He waited a short few minutes, then said in a conspiratorial tone ‘So. Green does it for you, then.’

John’s cheeks turned crimson (crimson!) but he reacted as if Lestrade’s remark was of no consequence.

‘Yeah. So?’

‘Hey there, mate, you don’t need to pretend there’s nothing there. I am not blind. Not even _colour_ blind,’ he added cheekily.

John could only roll his eyes at him.

If he’d known the turn things would have taken on that evening…he would not have changed anything in the world.

 

*

 

‘I’m going on a date tonight,’ John said as he took his jacket off and absent-mindedly put the kettle on. Sherlock asked nonchalantly where he would be taking her.

‘I’m taking her to see Wicked. And for a drink, afterwards.’

‘Wicked.’ Sherlock repeated, in a tone implying that he had deleted that piece of particular trivia and who had not the slightest idea of where, what or who ‘Wicked’ could be.

‘Wicked, yes. You know. The musical in the West End,’ replied John, irritated that his friend would not only have erased primary school stuff, but popular culture as well.

Sherlock quirked his eyebrow at him, displaying all at once a sense of irritation (‘Well, of _course_ I’d erase that. It’s not relevant to the Work, is it?’) and surprise (‘That’s a very sudden change in your dating pattern. Are you trying to impress them, now?’).

‘A musical,’ he simply said.

‘Yes, a musical, Sherlock. You know, like a play? But with lyrics.’

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if John was stating the obvious. Yet again, apparently.

‘Why don’t you –‘

‘Nope. Not coming to _you_ for _dating_ advice. In case you haven’t noticed –‘

‘Yes, I have, John.’ replied Sherlock curtly before retreating to his mind palace to work. John’s words had been hurtful, and he chose to ignore the pain they brought by immersing himself in any kind of experiment he could think of.

John shrugged, all too used to his flatmate’s ever changing moods.

 

John phoned Linda later that day to finalise the details of their date with her. He arranged for them to meet beforehand in Cardinal Street so they would have some time for a chat.

‘Hey Linda. It’s John. Hm? Yeah, fine, fine. And you? Good. So. I’ve got…2 tickets for Wicked – What? No, no, not 4, only the two. You still on for that? Great. So, I’ll meet you up there around six-ish? Brilliant, good. I’ll see you, then.’

Those disappearing tickets were puzzling, but certainly not worrying. Worse and stranger things had happened – especially in Baker Street. And it was not as if he had paid for these tickets.

Sherlock stayed in his room all day, presumably brooding. John threw a ‘don’t wait up’ to Sherlock’s door.

 

*

 

He and Linda had got their seats and were settled, Linda chatting him up with her expectations to the musical and loudly sharing her enthusiasm on seeing a musical.

The lights slowly faded out.

‘What are we doing here anyway?’

‘Case.’

John would have recognised that baritone voice anywhere.

‘Hurry, Graham, the show is about to start.’

‘Oh, Christ…!’ murmured John.

‘Wha’ is it?’ asked Linda, who had seen John’s face twist.

‘Ah, John. Fancy seeing you here,’ said Sherlock as he took his seat next to him while Lestrade was at the far end of their group.

‘Sherlock, what are you doing here?’ asked John in an angry whisper.

‘Hush, John. Your whispering is disturbing the audience,’ declared Sherlock in a lofty manner. John could hear the smirk on his lips.

John, despite his anger, was too sensible to argue – especially when the invoked reason was iron cast.

Once the music started, John sat deeper in his seat. He never went to see musicals – the activity was not his cup of tea. As was expected, the triviality of the story had Sherlock in a tense mood. He had once opened his mouth to criticise what was shown onstage – from props to choreography…not to mention the intelligence of the lyrics or the puns offered in the text – but he quickly resumed being silent.

John suspected something had caught his interest and that he was simply suspending judgement on the particular genre of musicals. He quickly revised his diagnostic when he noticed that Sherlock was gritting his teeth – as a means not to say anything. This sort of reaction was definitely uncommon: Sherlock did not care for social behaviour and he certainly did not care about upsetting idiot Andersons.

Early in the show, he saw Sherlock catch his breath. Despite his protests at having a heart, he had feelings, and he felt for the green girl so different from her peers and rejected because of it.

 

The people inhabiting that world were ludicrous.

‘The ‘Gah’ is silent.’ Preposterous. How could John stand all of this?

 

‘Now that we’re friends, I’ve decided to make you my new project.’

The answer ‘Please, don’t’ was so much like something Sherlock would say that John was not surprised to see him mouthing the words along with Ephelba.

From the corners of his eyes, he saw Sherlock straighten on his seat, his face a carefully composed mask. Of course it was a mask. Sherlock had emotions like any other human being, but chose not to acknowledge them nor let them show. That he should react, albeit slightly, especially to a song in which the main character mourned the fact that the person she loved did not return the sentiment, was disturbing.

Sherlock was feeling for the girl and the transport of his heart had a strong effect on him, to the point of making him react.

 

Later on, as Ephelba claimed that she had discovered a new side to her personality, John could not help but watch his friend’s reaction. He was enraptured, breath caught in his throat as soon as the first chorus came around.

John did not see him blink, but he did notice that his eyes had a shiny aspect.

His skin, which was usually pale as marble, showed red tinting to his cheekbones.

John knew he should be enjoying his date’s company, but this was Sherlock, displaying his emotions for all to see, the dimmed lights of the theatre offering him little cover.

John was captivated by the sight. Sherlock’s eyes were riveted to the stage, sat upright on the edge of his seat, burning with a passion, sweat gleaming on his forehead, mouth partially open in captivation. He let out a sigh on more than one occasion.

 

When the interval came, Sherlock had recovered and put his insensible mask again. John turned to his left to discuss the first act with his date. He had a fun time but had not concentrated on her yet, and planned on changing that. She was putting her coat back on.

‘Oh, Linda, where are you going?’ asked John, concerned for the sake of proper conduct.

‘Oh, er – I’m just going to the loo. Maybe grab a smoke after,’ she answered coyly, realising that her behaviour was not the most appropriate.

‘Ok, then. I’ll see you in a moment, then.’

She nodded and walked away.

‘Excuse me, could I go through?’ said a voice next to them. Sherlock pulled a face but stood up nonetheless, as John did so almost reflexively.

‘Hang on. Lestrade? Since when have you been there?’ John asked, befuddled.

‘Well, I arrived with Sherlock. You said ‘hi’, remember?’

‘Oh right, yeah. Sorry. So, you like it so far?’

‘Like what?’ answered Lestrade, a little too defensively, as if John were attacking him.

‘The musical, of course!’

‘Oh, well, it’s…nice, I suppose. Not really my cup of tea, if I’m honest. Sherlock said to accompany him for a case but…Yeah, I’m gonna go, I think.’

‘Really? Shame. Well, have a nice evening, then.’

John fell silent, torn between talking about the musical with Sherlock who did seem to have enjoyed the first part to a degree or just…keep an awkward silence.

Even if he was not to talk about his feelings, nothing prevented him from talking with Sherlock. Hell, nothing forced Sherlock to talk about…whatever he’s been experiencing. He turned around, only to find Sherlock doing the Look.

‘What?’ he asked, already defensively, instinctively knowing that such a look from Sherlock did not bode good news.

‘For someone controlled by their transport you’re really not good at hunting!’

John just stared at him.

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying that the woman you took on a date was not in the least interested in actually going to a musical, much less one for which the tickets were given out – don’t look so surprised, it’s perfectly evident. One mere look at your ‘attire’ screams financial problems, even the least observant person would notice that, it should not come as a surprise to you. And from the way she held herself, almost ready to leave, it was obvious that she did not like the musical, nor wanted to be wooed. She had put on too much make-up for a getting-to-know-you evening and had not dressed for that either…I’m honestly surprised you did not catch on that.

As you’ve already guessed, rightly so I might add, I have quite obviously taken two tickets in your coat pocket and told Lestrade to come with me. Lestrade who, I should add, has left with your date. You are appalling at keeping your territory’ he lashed out.

‘Hang on… is this Sherlock-Holmes-is-having-an-emotion again?’ John asked, unaffected by his friend’s outburst. It had become the norm, after all, that he should viciously lash out deductions as a defence mechanism to keep the enemy at bay. And John being the only person who actually volunteered to be in Sherlock’s company, he ended up being the enemy more often than not.

This, however, also meant that he had experience in dealing with shut-down-oyster-Sherlock. He just had to leave him cool off while he processed whatever had happened to disturb him. He decided to leave him be, and hoped he would have enough time during the interval to get himself under control. John knew that Sherlock had enjoyed the first act of the musical; it would be a shame if he were unable to enjoy the second because of emotional disturbance leading to enforced mind palace processing.

John sat back in his seat, not minding that his date had left, nonplussed at Lestrade for having gone with her. The only thing which concerned him was Sherlock’s state – he had his arms crossed and looked utterly defeated. John remembered that the one time an emotion got the better of Sherlock, he had indulged in alcohol – albeit only one glass. He rose from his seat, mumbling a ‘I’ll be right back’ to Sherlock and left the theatre to go to the bar. On his way, he had to pass overly long queues of ladies going to the loo. He ignored them, focussed as he was in going to the bar to buy Sherlock a whiskey.

He returned a few minutes later, offering him a glass of liquid courage. Sherlock took it absent-mindedly, without so much as a ‘thank you’ – which would have been disturbing, since Sherlock was anything but polite. Smiling unconsciously, John settled back in his seat and waited for the musical to start again.

 

When the musical started again, there was a tension in Sherlock’s body who was stiff as a rake. He clearly was clenching his teeth whenever the villagers would rejoice at Ephelba’s death. John noticed his lips slightly upturned when Glinda intervened, but his facial features presented a grim expression only deepened as the story progressed. He only relaxed when Ephelba’s love turned out to be requited: from the moment it became obvious that Glinda’s was unrequited did he start to calm down, and beamed when the ‘wicked witch’ got her man.

No other emotion transpired; Ephelba’s story was close to happily ever after, despite the numerous hardships she had been through. ‘All’s well that ends well,’ John thought he heard Sherlock whisper.

 

*

 

When the lights faded out, the audience cheered but Sherlock was particularly involved: gone was the tension he had harboured almost throughout the second act, and his usual stiff, haughty air had disappeared, replaced by one of earnest joy. He cheered and applauded with the same fervour he usually displayed when a good case was brought up to him.

John rarely saw him this open and easy, carefree even, and in public space, no less! That his attitude should be prompted by something which he would call trivial seemed ridiculous to anyone who knew him. And yet.

John resolved to try to facilitate the presence of such smiles and weightlessness in his friend just so he could enjoy the sight more. He did notice that, for once, Sherlock’s eyes were not focussed on everything at the same time – he was immersed, lost in the appreciation he had had of the show.

After the performers had taken their bow three times, the lights had come back to the full and the dimmed music was completely stopped. Every spectator was leaving the theatre – some of them had left as soon as the last note rang – but Sherlock did not appear to be willing to relocate any time soon. John gently took his hand to make him return to reality. It did not, however, break the spell entirely, despite Sherlock’s best efforts at putting his mask of indifference back on. For some strange, unfathomable reason, John let his hand linger in Sherlock’s – who did not reject him, which was even more surprising.

‘Come on, let’s go home,’ he said, tugging slightly at Sherlock’s hand, a smile on his lips.

Sherlock was still in a haze, no matter how much he would protest against it. The outside air did him good because it woke him out of his reverie.

He hailed a taxi. As soon as Sherlock had put his hand in the air a taxi arrived. John could not understand how Sherlock was able to pull this trick every time. He had grown resigned to not knowing.

‘Baker Street,’ Sherlock told to the cab driver.

 As usual, the two men sat on opposite sides to each other. Although Sherlock had no consideration for other people’s personal space, he was incredibly touchy as to his own and kept to himself, in what appeared to anyone looking as brooding.

 

John however, was not fooled by this act – he had, after all, lived with the mad detective for more than a year. Sherlock might be able to read him like an open book, but John was not entirely blind either.

Even if Sherlock was not displaying any exterior sign of interest in his surroundings, John knew better than to believe that. His hands were not clenched between his knees, one of them was on his lap while the other rested on the backseat. He was agitated, tremors in his cheeks, on which he had no control because, as much as he claimed to be the master of his transport, his brain could no more order his muscles than John could be rich simply by saying he was.

John had witnessed his friend being affected by his emotions all evening long; he could not prevent a small smile from forming on his lips.

Seeing him so vulnerable and clueless made him bold. He took Sherlock’s hand in his.

‘All right?’ he inquired.

‘I, erm, I… I’m fine.’ Sherlock’s stuttering was so endearing that John became even bolder, squeezed Sherlock’s hand, let it go and placed it on his thigh. He didn’t say anything, but his features tensed for a second before relaxing. The ride continued a couple of minutes in silence before the two men’s eyes met. John looked pointedly at his hand on Sherlock’s thigh.

‘I don’t mind,’ Sherlock said timidly.

‘Good,’ was John’s only answer – which he accompanied with a warm smile, encouraging smile. He hoped Sherlock would not think it was wolfish.

Reassured, and encouraged by John’s demeanour, Sherlock put his own hand above John’s. John could feel heat through his gloved hands despite the cold of the leather and briefly wondered on the intensity of the heat of Sherlock’s body when all his defences were…put away.  Judging by the touch of his gloved hand, the man should be burning inside. Nothing less than a volcano. John forced himself not to linger on that too much. It was fortunate that Sherlock was not looking at him and was, instead, focussed on the turmoil of emotions that had started up inside him. He would otherwise have read his train of thought – and John would have probably died of shame. Or hid in his room for several days which would be highly detrimental to his plans. He did not want to _hide_ in his room. And certainly not from Sherlock.

 

From time to time, John would continue on with his boldness and squeeze Sherlock’s thigh, or come closer to him without ever saying a word.

He could feel more heat radiating from the seemingly cold and unattainable, married-to-his-work man next to him.

The trip from the theatre to Baker Street was short, but John felt it took ages, probably due to his impatience to see to other things. John almost leapt out of the cab, leaving Sherlock to pay, but remembered his manners and waited for him in front of the main door.

Sherlock held himself straight, but without as much aplomb as he would any other time. His limbs were shaking a little – first time anxiety. He had dropped the pretence of being unaffected as soon as they were past the front door. John refrained from jumping on Sherlock in the stairs – even if the sexual tension had built up nicely in the car, Sherlock still looked coy and a little uncertain. Maybe a little apprehensive. He decided to put on his best gentlemanly behaviour.

‘So. Drink, then?’

‘Er, yes, John. Please.’

‘Tea, I suppose,’ he said, already leaving to put the kettle on. John knew that Sherlock would think he needed something stronger, but would have loathed for Sherlock’s mind to be dulled. He had no idea what his tolerance to alcohol was, but he suspected it was rather low.

John’s tone broke no argument and Sherlock, who was about to start arguing, asking for something else, suddenly decided against it. He knew better than to argue with _Captain_ John Watson.

‘John, I…’

‘Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll make the tea.’

Sherlock found himself obeying John automatically, and noted that he could not care less for following simple orders, as long as these came from John.

While they waited for the tea to be ready, John asked Sherlock what he had thought of Wicked.

‘It was a very good example of emotions and feelings being nefarious to human beings,’ he declared, as haughty as ever.

‘Oh. How so?’ If truth be told, John was disappointed that Sherlock would dismiss a show which had an incredibly flagrant impact on him. Surprised, however…

The only instantaneous answer he received was a raised eyebrow, but an insisting look made the detective elaborate.

‘Rejecting beings different from them _did_ turn the people into a mass intent on murder. I admit that I’d have had fun with this one, but I fail to see how that is relevant to anything. It only comforts me in the opinion that emotions do not prove beneficial to the human race.’

‘Alright. What about the love story, then?’

‘What love story?’ retorted Sherlock in an aggressive tone.

‘Well, you know.’

‘No.’

‘Oh, come on. The unrequited love that tur-‘

‘Oh, you mean the reassuring lie that makes everything end happily ever after? That one?’

‘Yes. That one, if you must call it like that.’

‘As everything else, a mere tool to attract a bigger audience and produce more money. Nothing ends happily ever after. Ever,’ he concluded in a harsh, firm voice.

Silence settled, and John let it so as to carefully observe Sherlock.

He was, as usual, sat in a stiff position, letting nothing show on his face. John, however, was having more practise in that particular area, and could see that the mask of cool detachment was holding by the sheer will of its wearer. And that will was not as strong as it used to be.

‘I’m afraid your conclusion is false. Happy endings _do_ , in fact, happen,’ he said in a low voice, all the while moving closer to Sherlock and taking hold of his hand. ‘You just have to...,’ he continued, moving fully into Sherlock’s space, so as to be in front of him, mere inches from his face. He looked at him with all the confidence he could muster ‘close your eyes and…leap,’ he concluded in a whisper before kissing him lightly.

 

*

 

Sherlock jumped a little in alarm, but quickly relaxed into the kissing, not believing what was happening despite his senses being rather clear. For some reason, he refused to believe it was Baskerville all over again, the conditions were not akin to that of an experiment and the scientist had a strong command of every parameter involved. _He_ was very involved himself and Sherlock felt how his lack of practise in that area had made him a mere layman in comparison to other fields.

He happily decided to explore this side of himself more, in John’s company even more so, and plunged into kissing, feverish and hungry.

John apparently appreciated this turn of events because his embrace was tighter but his hands never settled on one place too long, which was an excellent method to avoid predictability. And cultivate interesting sensations. _Very_ interesting sensations.

The only downfall was the sensory overload that was bound to happen…but he decided to overlook that inconvenience and focus on John. On his hands. His hands that were presently busy unbuttoning his shirt. He broke the kiss for a second, the time for him to say ‘Let me help’, but John rejected him and growled something that implied that he was doing fine on his own and did not want any help.

Sherlock decided to help him out of _his_ shirt, but John was having none of that either and Sherlock was left with little choice but to sit back and enjoy the moment. He thought of making his disagreement clear by stopping the kiss…but quickly dismissed this idea. Kissing was what had prompted these sensations to happen.

John drew back several inches, enough for him to observe his work. Sherlock did the same and was met with the arousing sight of John. John who usually wears puffy jumpers to appear nondescript…Sherlock had met dangerous, killing John but he found that this side of him was _quite_ appealing. John’s gaze locked onto his, intense as it had never been, and yet God knew how intensely he looked at him, ever since they had met. His scrutiny was so deep, so heated, so _hungry_ that Sherlock felt that all his willpower, however much was left of it after their kissing, had disintegrated.

Gaze lowering to his nether regions, but not losing any heat, John made it clear that he wanted to move their exchange to a more comfortable place. Sherlock was all the more happy to comply.


End file.
